The Tenth
by nicolascage123
Summary: A debt must be repaid to the Medic, a debt that will send Paul through the journey of his life to become the Tenth mercernary
1. Training Day

He had no Idea where he was . . . A fragment of his line of vision was discernible, but only the unmerciful desert brown of the sand met it. The rest was a jumbled blur of painful doubled and blurred vision that saw a barely visible flat horizon.

And yet, in this state of discombobulated confusion, he felt the surge of adrenaline in his blood, his Brain wanted to live, _he_wanted to live. He had cried for the past Twenty minutes, but along with his strength, his tears and saliva had gone, sapped by an unforgiving heat.

But even the strongest, most electrifying pulses of adrenaline die, even at the hands of the thing that gave it strength, nature. He fell. He could no longer discern anything. He felt the sand burning under his skin, but at the same time he couldn't, his brain frantically ignoring the most basic things trying to keep him alive, but alas, he faded. Darkness. Eyes closed.

His lungs filled with air, his eyes widening, his back stiffening, jolting up his entire being up with life. He screamed, his vocal cords shaking of the phlegm of the dry heat. When his lungs hurt so badly he could no longer scream, he stopped. He'd survived. He looked around, fumbling out of the bed, crashing against the Red wood. He splintered his hands, trying to get up, his strength slow to return to him.

Boots clacked with urgency on top of the wood, speed-walking into the room. A tall, grim looking man with smile lines gracing his face emerged from the door way. "What are you doing! Get back into bed immediately!" The man, wearing a white, button-up medical coat gripped his shoulders, rubber gloved fingers sieging him and forcing him onto the bed.

His name was Paul. He had no idea how he'd arrived there, or even passed out into the Desert in the first place. He laid into his bed looking up, breathing as fast as his chest pain allowed him. The man, who had a thick German accent, looked into Paul's eyes.

"Now! I am a doctor. You have nothing to worry about while talking to me, unless some sort of surgery is being done to you, then you only have around a 65 percent chance to be in danger." The man stifled a chuckle. "No, I'm messing with you; it's only around 40 percent." The man stood up. Paul noticed the Red Cross adorning his broad shoulders. Now he recognized him.

"You . . ." Paul said. "Y- You're the Medic!" The Medic looked at him quizzically. "Did I not just tell you that?" Paul looked around wide-eyed. "I- I didn't think you were real! You were just a video game character! I've played as you, and died as you, and- He was cut off. "Calm down. You're talking nonsense. It's just the meds. The extremely hard to make, rare, time consuming meds . . ."

"What are you talking about? What meds?" Paul quickly asked. "Jane found you while driving around, during his . . . "Daily Robo-patrol." He's a bit paranoid after his toaster fell on top of his foot. He was quick to assume that it was Gray Mann attacking us with more robots. Between you and me-" He blocked his mouth with a hand- "He's not the brightest." He stood up straight. "Now, I must go help some of the others, we're fresh from a new battle with Blu, one that we barely made- He stopped, as if remembering something. "_Scheisse!"_ "What's wrong?" Paul asked. "I forgot to put Tavish's fingers back on . . . He's probably too drunk to notice, but . . . You know. Fingers, blood loss, I have to go. Tusch." He turned on his heel and left.

"What about the meds!?" Paul called out the door, sitting himself up. "Get some rest, we'll talk later." Paul, in a huff laid back down into his bed. He looked around. A dirty lamp sat on the nightstand next to him. The nightstand was a wooden, red stand with small ornate carvings on the wood. When he looked closer, he saw a small name etched into the side of the leg. "Jean . . ." He whispered under his breath. That's when he noticed a mirror across the room from him. He could see his reflection. His Brown Frazzled hair sat in its natural messy position atop his head, His Grey eyes, as usual, didn't really have much definition, but his somewhat defined cheekbones did. He had a thin face, and his dimples were unsually big, probably from the starvation.

The rest of the room was a plain, red, wooden room that was a bit cramped. He had not seen this map in-game, and he suspected that this area either wasn't released, or it was just . . . different than presented in game. But why? Why was this real? Had this war actually happened, tucked away by the government? Did Valve find this out and put it into a game? Paul had so many questions, probably none would be answered anytime soon. He tried not thinking about it, as it would get him nowhere.

He opened the small drawer on the nightstand, wide drawer on the nightstand. Nothing inside but a layer of dust and a dead fly. He shook his head, when he noticed something. The side of the drawer's opening mechanism had a strange looking gear system leading to the back of it. He wondered whether this was normal and stood up. He didn't want the Medic catching him again, for fear of a loud German Scolding, so he tiptoed very carefully.

After examining both sides of the drawer, he concluded that only the right side had the gears. He looked into them, seeing where they led. He turned on the lamp and put it against it, illuminating the gears to their source. It went downwards. He took his hand and probed the underside of the stand, eventually finding a switch. He flipped it, and heard the gears slowly grind. He examined the drawer and found a small indent.

He felt it, eventually finding a small hinge. He pulled on the indent, and a secret compartment was revealed on the backside of the table. It opened, and something fell out. It was a small knife, no longer than his hand. He held it, feeling the leather in his hands, warming up to his body heat. Why had this been here? As his thoughts deepened, he heard a voice.

"impressive." Paul stood straight up as fast as he could manage, hiding the knife behind him, but instead flinging it at the ground. The blade stuck into the wood, just barely grazing his pinkie toe. It stung a bit, but it was nothing serious. The man stood at the doorway, stiff his leaning position, and walked towards him. He stooped, and as quick as a hawk, grabbed the knife and threw it into the air, catching it while maintaining eye contact with Paul.

He gripped his cigarette, flicking it off of the balcony leading out of the doorway. He grinned, the fabric of his ski mask moving upwards with the corner of his mouth. "For emergencies. I've only used it once, a few days ago. One of the bastards on Blu decided to take his rifle and try to pick off a few of us on the balcony. _Tried."_ He took the knife and slid it back into the slot behind the stand and closed it, the gears again whirring.

"I understand that you are attempting to explore the small area you are confined to, but it may not be a good thing if you find something private. Scout once found Tavish's . . ." He sighed. "Scrumpy," and decided that he wanted to try it. Let's just say that the scout had to use the Life-link about 4 times before he could get a word out before his teeth were broken with the back of a Grenade launcher."

"What's a "Life-Link?" Asked Paul. "A machine that was put into us by the Medic before the fighting between Red and Blu began. Apparently they had the same technology, and they received it too. If one of our brains just happen to be Burnt, Vaporized, Exploded, or Destroyed in any other method, then our bodies will be torn apart at the molecular level and put back together where the machine is, usually our barracks for the area, with a brain that can at _least _rub a few cells together." Paul nodded, understanding.

"Well, I must depart, as the need for sleep is beginning to take its toll." He sighed, and waved his gloved hand at Paul. He had barely noticed that the sun had fallen, the horizon swallowing it up, revealing the moon. He was a bit tired, and decided he too would get some rest. He dug his head into his Mildly uncomfortable pillow, closing his eyes. He felt himself slipping away into the darkness of unconsciousness.

"WAKE UP!" Paul heard a powerful voice plow through his psyche, scaring him half to death. He jumped up, almost falling out of his bed, knocking the lamp off the nightstand, the lamp shade tearing on the corner of it. "WAKE UP PRIVATE! I WILL NOT TOLERATE THIS LAZINESS! YOU TORE A PERFECTLY MEDIOCORE PARTLY STAINED LAMP SHADE AND- he began to laugh, his gravelly voice emanating from the doorway.

It was the soldier, also known as Jane Doe. He was doubled over laughing as a similarly familiar person, the Demoman, Tavish Degroot knocked into him laughing just as hard. "His face!" The soldier called out. "Lamp shade!" The Demoman cheered on. "I'm sorry about the lamp! I'll clean it up!" Paul said frantically. "No lad, it's perfectly fine, that bampot Jean put the worst, cheapest stuff he could find around here. Watch this!" He picked up the lamp, crudely putting the shade back on.

He pulled what Paul recognized as the Stickybomb launcher out of a small case he had on his utility belt. He shot a few bombs onto the lamp, making sure that at least three or four bombs total were attached. He handed it to the soldier, meanwhile putting his hand on a small detonator-type device around his waist. He smiled devilishly as the soldier held it like a football. The soldier threw it as hard as he could muster into the desert. When It reached the highest altitude, The Demoman pressed the button, chuckling as the lamp burst into dozens of pieces, bits of plastic and metal showering the radius of the explosion.

A few pieces of it landed next or on them, one stray piece of metal landing next to The soldier's foot. He laughed along with The Demoman, looking towards Paul. "But seriously private, you should get up, Dieter needs to talk to you." Paul wondered for a second who it could be, but then realized that the name was German, and there was only one German. "Yup." The Demoman said, turning to walk next to The Soldier down the balcony. "Everyone's _favorite_ finger attachment botchin' psychopath." He mumbled a bit, looking down at his now disproportionately sized fingers. Paul looked too, noticing that his middle finger wasn't as large as his Ring finger, or his Index finger for that matter.

He walked with them, every once in a while listening to ranom banter between the two. "Private! This is the most important part of the day! Me, you, and Tavish must wake all of the other Mercenaries! All you have to do is knock on their door and pray to _god _they aren't naked at the window." First, they walked down the balcony steps, walking through the line of doors. Some were broken, some blackened with past explosions or fire, and some rooms didn't even have doors, exposed to the rough New Mexican elements.

Paul noticed that the place would probably have been a Inn, or a Motel before the war and/or abandonment of the area commenced, and it was a bit sad to see how far gone it was. They arrived at room number 14 and the soldier knocked. "Misha, Get up! Training time!" Paul heard him mumble something in a half conscious stupor. "Too bad! Get up!" The soldier replied.

They continued walking, and as they did Paul looked through the grimy 4 pane window. The Heavy, or as he now knew him, Misha, was slowly standing up. He took a sandwich out of the drawer in his nightstand and began eating. Paul guessed the he never _did_part with his Sandvich, even during sleep. "Private! What are you doing? Catch up!" With one last glance towards the Giant man, Paul jogged back up.

The trio continued down the walkway. They went out of the shade into the Glaring sun's rays, walking to the other side of the complex. The soldier went up the stairs to what said on the door, room 9-Something. The other letter or number was gone. As they did last time, he knocked on the door, yelling at the person inside to get up.

"Je- he was cut off by the door opening. The spy, or who Paul figured out to be named "Jean", walked out adjusting his suit collar. He cleared his throat, and with a head tilted towards the sky, briskly walked down the stairs past him and the other two towards the large main building a bit further up towards the northern side. The soldier looked at The demoman quizzically. He responded with a shrug. "Pretentious. Heh."

They continued, knocking on the door a few doors down, 12-B. "Get up Scout!" He said. "I'm tired, I ain't getting' up for at _least_ another hour." The Soldier, now a bit angry, yelled even louder. "Well isn't that just too bad! Now get up!" "Screw off bucket head." The scout yelled back, still half asleep. Now furious, he kicked the door open, taking his Trumpet out of a small pack around his waist. He blew it as hard as he could at the scout's face, causing him to immediately jump out of his bed, fall off and hit his head on the doorknob to what Paul concluded was a small bathroom.

"You freakin' son of a bitch!" The scout yelled, grabbing his baseball bat off the top of his nightstand. The Soldier, laughing, walked out and closed the door, holding it closed by the doorknob with his free hand, putting the trumpet away with his other. The scout pounded on the door for a minute, yelling insults at The Soldier. Both him and The Demoman were smiling, satisfied with the results. "You know what? I'm fine, alright? I'm cool, I'm getting' dressed." The scout called out. Paul swore he could hear the scout mumble something along the line of "Bastards" In his thick trademark Boston accent.

"Last one!" The Soldier said happily. As they approached the last door, they heard some sort of crackling. "Oh boy . . ." The Demoman said grimly. "What? What is it?" Paul said. "Don't be scared of him private, he's basically like a teddy bear, a fire obsessed psychopathic teddy bear." Paul knew who he was talking about. The soldier put his head to the door, and pulled it back, rubbing his temple. "He's done it again Tavish." "Mother of god . . ." Paul looked at The Demoman. He had backed himself up, his shoulder leaned towards the door.

The Demoman charged the door, surging through it! Fragments of woods, some burnt, flew like shrapnel from a grenade as he stood back, admiring his work. He rubbed his Red shirted shoulder. "Oh, that stings" He muttered. Even more heat than the powerful sun residing above burst from the door, flames licking the sides of it. Paul looked at the fresh hell that The Soldier was charging into head first. A bed, in the middle of the room was engulfed by flames, the inferno gripping like hands at the ceiling. A man . . . A woman, _something_ was staring at it. It was the pyro.

Pyro rubbed his hands together as if it was at a campfire. The bright reverberant jumping red, yellow, and orange reflected off of his goggle-like optics. He cocked his head towards Paul. "Huwa hud hudda?" He suspected that Pyro was asking who he was, but he was a bit too dazed by the whole scene unfolding in front of him that it wasn't the first thing to graze his mind.

The Soldier looked exasperatedly towards the pyro. "_Again?_ I told you not to do that!" The pyro replied. "Buh buh buh-" The Demoman cut him off. "Don' worry! I got it!" Paul had just noticed that he had been carrying a bottle of the so-called "Scrumpy" On his person. He threw it as hard as he possibly could into the bed, hoping to extinguish it.

Both The Demoman _and_The Soldier had been thrown back by the fury of the explosion. The pyro was blasted clear out of the window and onto the balcony, kept from falling by the hand rail. The Demoman, the front of his shirt blackened, turned on his heel towards the pyro. "Yeh killed mah scrumpeh!" He put his hands to the Pyro's throat, but pulled back before he made contact. "No, no, Tavish, calm yerself, he didn't mean it . . ."

The almost full bottle of Alcohol had Exploded on contact with the flames, causing some of the roof to fall and extinguish the flaming bed. Paul and The Demoman looked over the balcony, and saw The Soldier limping towards the building. The Medic, or Dieter, was running out, Medi-Gun in hand, followed by the Engineer.

"What in the name of _gott_is this!?" The Demoman tried to answer but The Medic didn't let him. "You _do_ know that destruction of this _and_ nearby property is strictly forbidden, _right?_! We could lose this job! Do you have any idea what doing this _twice_is going to look like to our employers?" The Soldier stepped forward gripping his leg. "Um, Doc? I'm pretty sure my leg is completely broken in 1 . . . 2 . . . 3, yeah, wait, no, 4 parts. Could you help me out?

The Medic groaned an pointed the contraption towards his leg, pushing the valve and releasing a steady stream of Red energy. "Never again! Pyro, you are strictly forbidden from being in a room alone . . . You're going to stay with . . . What's your name?" "Paul." He replied. "Yes! Pyro, you are staying with Paul for the remainder of our occupation of this area!" He looked at the pyro, expecting a protest from it. When it noticed me looking at it, it turned. It held a thumb up. "Hafla!"

The Soldier approached the Medic, a bit shorter than him, but stronger. "It'll be fine Dieter. There's no reason to be angry. Right?" The Demoman took an expression that he hadn't seen before, a look of solemnity. The Medic took of his glasses and wiped his forehead and eyes with his forearm and put them back on. "Ok. Lets discuss what we need too." He looked a bit worried an turned, beckoning Paul to follow.

The Engineer stood behind The Medic, waiting for him to pass before he silently laughed, his smile stretching ear-to-ear. They walked into the building together, The Medic, The Deoman, The Soldier, Paul, The engineer, and pyro, The Heavy and The Scout following a bit behind.

When they walked up to the door to the complex, it was opened before any of them could open it themselves. Jean, the Spy, stood beckoning inwards. All of them walked into the building, only The Demoman saying a brief "Thanks mate!" To him. He nodded.

The door led to a wide, open lobby, windows on the top long gone, allowing bright sunlight to fall into it. Broken down tables, destroyed desks, and a caved in staircase, one of two of them, the one on the right being the one still properly fixed up, leading to a similarly dilapidated 2nd floor that only added to the mood the building gave off. The soldier put his arm around Paul's neck and Gesticulated to the lobby. "Our headquarters, private! Look out for the northeastern side, the floor's sticky, no idea why."

The Medic swiftly walked to the only desk in the entire lobby that wasn't a ramshackle pile of wood and metal and sat down behind it. Each of the remaining 7 mercs sat down around the room, Jean leaning against a wall to the right of The Medic, The Demoman and The Soldier standing by the entrance, The Engineer sitting cross legged on a broken desk, The Heavy, as before, munching on a sandvich by him, The scout swinging from some metal Pipework by the left staircase.

"So! You want answers, don't you?" The Medic said to Paul, who stood center towards the desk he sat at. "All that happened was is that we found you dead. Your were obviously malnourished, and your body was very bony and thin . . ." The medic scanned his torso and arms with his eyes for a second. "And it seems like my treatment didn't exactly help that problem . . . But anyway, I was able to revive you with an extremely hard to make life giving serum that I managed to formulate. It takes several months of gathering _quite _specific materials, a few worth mentioning are type of plutonium, a small amount of ink, 4 brands of Toothpaste, just random things that just _happen _to be able to bring the dead to life.

"Wait a minute-" Paul said quizzically. "Couldn't you have used that life-link thingy to bring me back?" The Medic sat back in his chair, folding his gloved hands. "Unfortunately no. If you're too far from it, than you risk not being able to be revived by it, plus you don't have a device for it lodged into your pancreas, which you . . . May have soon." Paul could have sworn he saw a small grin cross The Medic's face.

"So what is it that you need me here for?" Paul asked looking at a few of the others. The Medic promptly responded. "That serum takes months to complete, and it originally was going to be used if something goes horribly wrong during a fight between us and Blu. It hasn't been seen anywhere else, so it's extremely valuable . . . What I'm trying to say is, is that you need to repay your debt." "And how would I do that?" Paul replied. As amazing and mind-boggling it was to be around his favorite video game characters, he was a bit tired of the Grueling heat of the New-Mexican desert. He hoped in the back of his head that it wasn't some sort of labor.

"The Scout-" He turned and pointed to The Scout, still swinging on the piping. "Is highly trained and specializes in . . . Scouting! He runs fast, takes intelligence, pushes the offensive line-" He turned to The Engineer who was chuckling to himself under his breath. "And has a _very important _,_job_." He turned back. "The Engineer, we call him Dell, sets up sentries to prevent Blu infantry from getting to intelligence or a payload, and is quite the defensive type of mercenary." The engineer, still sitting cross legged upon the desk, saluted him, grinning. "And I make sure no one has to wait to be revived with the life link or die a painful death, so that the defensive line doesn't fall. What I'm trying to say is that each of us specializes in something, and each one of us, except maybe the pyro, can teach someone that information- pass it down, if you will. You made me use that serum, and you have to repay us. Me, Jane, Tavish and Dell have predicted a large battle that'll take place a few miles up north. We won't be receiving supplies for a few months, neither is Blu, so neither of us can fight without running out of ammo in the first few minutes. In that fight, there will be Nine Blu team members. We have Nine too. Unless you become the Tenth."

"Wha- What do you mean?" Paul said wide-eyed. "We have around 4 or 5 months before the fight. We have about 9 different types of mercenaries here. We have one clean slate. My plan, and the plan the rest of us have agreed on, is that each one of us will teach you how to be what we are. You will spend time with each of us, learning how to use the weapons, learning the skills, learning the techniques required to be that mercenary. When the time comes, you will choose who you want to be, who you want to specialize as." Paul looked at the ground, mystified. This was something he'd thought of in his wildest fantasies, fighting alongside the mercenaries, becoming victorious in the field of battle with his comrades. This was an honor.

"Are you okay? Do you need a minute to think?" The Medic said to him. "What? Oh, no, I'm fine, it's actually a great plan!" The Medic, upon hearing that raised an eyebrow, smirking. He turned to The Engineer. The Engineer sighed and made a slight rolling motion with his head. Paul assumed he was rolling his eyes, but his trademark goggles masked them.

"So! That was a good conference! The only thing left to decide is to decide who you want to train with first!" The Medic said, perking up, still looking at Paul. Paul tried hard to remember who he had played the most in the game . . . How could he have forgotten? He'd seen that loading screen every time he logged in. At that moment, Paul began to realize once again how insane the situation he was in was. He was being asked which Team Fortress class he wanted to be first! This was one of his long time fantasies! He thought for a moment, but remembered the task at hand. All of the sudden, it came back to him, the class he played the most.

"Spy! That's who I want to train with first! Spy!" Paul called out. The Medic looked at him quizzically. "Really? Why would you- Never mind. Alright!" He looked at the spy, who stood straight up on the frame of the entrance door, smirking. "Of course he picks me . . . Finesse is the basis of-" He was cut off by shoes clacking heavily on the linoleum floor. A man with a strong 5 o' clock shadow and a White tank top had landed from a balcony atop the destroyed left staircase. He wore brown cargo pants and a Cowboy looking hat on, curved up on the right side. Paul recognized him as the sniper.

"Did I miss something?" The Medic turned to him scowling. "Only the entire plan regarding him." "My bad mate, was a bit busy keepin' the desert under control." The Medic looked at him with an eyebrow raised. "And who's going to attack? Being that far from their life link would be a death sentence if they were killed by one of us." "I don't know, but it's better to be safe then sorry, right?" The Medic rolled his eyes and turned back towards Paul. "We're done here everyone, go do. . . Whatever you where doing." The scout let go of the piping and fell to the floor. "I'm goin' back to sleep fellas. Night night." He began to walk out, but The Soldier grabbed him before he could. "Hey, what're you doing!?" The Scout began to tug away from his grip, but couldn't get himself free. "You're coming down with me, Tavish and Dell to get to work on fixing that old bar. We need somewhere besides some stuffy old motel room to get shade." "But those stuffy motel rooms have beds, the saloon doesn't!" The Scout replied, this time with a hint of annoyance. "Quit being a baby Scout. We all have to work." The scout sighed and said "Fine." They walked out of the building and into the old bar down the road a ways, the Engineer eventually catching up with them.

The Sniper climbed back up the wreckage and into the second floor, while the Heavy walked out into the desert, eventually reaching a water pipe, where he pumped some water into a bucket resting by it. The Medic waved goodbye to Paul as he left, returning to the check-in room behind the motel rooms and next to the bar. The Pyro returned to the room Paul woke up in originally. As Paul waited by the door watching the others leave, he felt a hand clasp onto his back. "Well my good man, it appears that you have at least some sense in the finer points of the art of war, the more graceful and _sneaky _points." He chuckled and continued, except walking this time and leading Paul by the hand on his shoulder. "You chose the right class mon ami, and you will be far better trained at this skill than the others will train you in theirs. I can only hope that within the next months you won't be flying through the air from detonating explosives under you, drunk on scrumpy."

Eventually they got to the end of the line of motel rooms, and continued walking through the desert. A little bit ahead of them, Paul saw another building, what looked like a long rectangular building. When they arrived, The Spy walked forward and opened the door for Paul. Paul uttered a quick "Thanks" and walked in. It was what looked like a large training building, with 10 sections. Paul walked in, looking around in wonderment. The Spy tapped his shoulder and pointed to the end of the building.

They walked for about 2 minutes before arriving, as the complex was quite large. A large gathering of ballistic dummies and targets lined the walls. A gathering of rafters where on the ceiling. A few deactivated sentries where stuffed in the corner in a box labeled "Sapper dummies". Paul turned to The Spy. "Why do you need this stuff?" "Practice. The most important part of sharpening your skills . . . And blades-" He threw his knife point forward to a dummy, the knife shooting surging through the air like a dart. It pierced the dummy, fake blood oozing from the wound.

"Complete upper orbital breakage-" He pulled the knife out and walked towards a large metal tube with a valve attached. "In other words, and almost instant death." He turned the valve, and something similar looking to the Medic's healing came out, fixing the wound in the dummy. "Woah." Paul uttered. "I know. Highly advanced technology, we have Dell to thank for that, him and Dieter for this equipment." "Should we get started?" Paul asked. "Tomorrow. We must rest for the night and most of the day. In the meantime, we should help with basic chores. We have to fix the handrails up on that bar's top floor and do basic maintenance.

The rest of the day for Paul was mostly working on basic chores, just as the Spy recommended. All that broke up the day was an hour long lunch break, where they all sat together under the shade of the Motel's mess hall. The Demoman and The Soldier mostly sat together, taking turns drinking, sharing stories, one in particular being about a friendly Kit Fox The Demoman found and cared for by a cactus on Robo-Patrol. The Heavy sat by the windows, humming a song and still eating an almost identical sandwich to the one he woke up with. The Medic, The Engineer, The Sniper, and The Scout sat together, discussing the oncoming battle with Blu. The pyro was flicking a Zippo next to the Heavy, every once in a while making a sound along the lines of "Huhuha!" And showing a flame to The Heavy, who would then laugh and continue eating his sandwich. Paul, The Sniper and The Spy sat together. The Spy kept to himself, eating a few slices of turkey. He heard The Medic even remark about how he procured those exquisite foods while all they had to eat was The genetically Scout-tested roast beef that The Medic formulated.

Eventually, it was bedtime, the sun had fallen and most of the others had fallen asleep. As Paul flipped the blankets on himself and closed his eyes, he heard something. "Hmmm . . ." He turned to see The Pyro with a lighter, holding it to something. It sounded fore-lorn. Paul sat up and looked at him. It was quite large, broad shoudered, so Paul decided to assume it was a him until he had proof otherwise. He approached Him. "Um. . ." The Pyro snapped back to looking at him, jolting up. The Pyro had been holding a large book, and had slammed it shut when he approached. The Pyro laid down, Closing his lighter, sighing. Paul laid back down.

With time to himself finally, Paul thought back to what he'd experienced. He wondered what was going on with the pyro, but at the same time thought about what had happened. How was this real? Was this a dream of dehydration? A halluncination? Paul almost pinched himself, but that would be stupid, he was certain it wasn't a dream. How was this a game? How is this not known by the Government, or Valve? Do they know? Paul was tired, and he didn't want to answer these questions, after all, he was living a fantasy at this point. And he was enjoying it, despite the hot weather. Paul had a lot to look forward to, training with the spy for the first time and living more with his favorite characters. He closed his eyes and smiled. This was going to be a great few months.


	2. Stealth and Smoldering Sandviches

Chapter 2: Training day

It was only 4:00 in the morning. Darkness cloaked the entire area, the distant cacti shimmering, the nearby buildings almost looking asleep. The desert sand still lightly blew, every once in a while, a small sand puff being blown about the ground. The scattered green of the Plants on the ground blew back and forth, along with the broken handrails lining the motel balconies. The place was in a deep peacefulness, but it was only the eye of a storm, for an incoming battle would soon tear the place into a deeper state of dilapidation, the destroyed rooms, the blackened walls, the number of them would probably doubling, if the old place even survived.

A small, almost stereotypically ghost-sounding whistle slowly echoed through the chipped red paint motel room on the top floor of the left side of the motel. The sound came again, but this time a bit louder. Nothing. Not a single stir. Another whistle, this time more intense, less patience present in its diction. Again, nothing. "Heavy sleepers. Ech."

A man in a Red suit stood above the headboard of a smaller-then-usual bed on the ground. The shifting weight of his feet caused a large squeaking among the bedsprings. "**_BOO!_**" The man had now been face to face with the occupant of the bed, bent over. The person jolted up, struggling against the tangle of blankets and the sweaty wife beater on his chest. He yelled, frantically jumping up, laying back down, opposite the direction he had been sleeping in. He noticed the man, the Red spy, hopping from the headboard to the floor left of the bed, laughing.

The person on the bed, Paul, looked at him angrily. "What the hell?!" After the Spy quit laughing and snorting, he looked at him, a grin adorning his masked face. "That, was for the beginning of your first lesson's instruction." "First lesson? What time is it? The sun isn't even up!" "Too bad my friend! The early bird gets the worm! If you want to truly, _truly _become a master of the art of the Spy, than you must put the work, the dedication, the . . ." He trailed off and looked at Paul. His eyes were fluttering, and he was almost falling asleep. "_Merde." _He sighed.

The spy grabbed a T-Shirt, looking at it distastefully and picked up a ripped pair of jeans. He folded them up and placed them inside of a small attaché case attached to his leg on the inside of his pant leg. He walked towards Paul, grabbing him by the arm firmly, dragging him to the empty doorframe. "HEY!" Paul yelled. He scrambled to get up, kicking at the floor until he was standing. He rubbed his arm, still somewhat in an unconscious stupor, until he noticed the Spy walking out towards the balcony stairs. "W- Wait up! I'm coming!"

He stumbled down the stairs towards him, eventually catching up. "Sorry for not getting up . . ." Paul said apologetically. "Nothing to worry about, the most disciplined of us cannot fight back against sleep. But me . . . I don't sleep for more than 4 hours every night. It's a bit timewasting for the full 9 hours, if you can cut it down to 4 with an immense amount of training." Paul looked at him with wide-eyes. "You- You . . ." The spy looked at him and chuckled. "I'm not going to make you sleep for only 4 hours a night. What I'm teaching you is far more important. The element of surprise."

"How are you gonna do that?" Paul asked. "I'll show you." The spy replied slyly. They continued walking, Paul looking around him. There was a silence until they were a few dozen feet from the facility. Paul noticed something on the ground. He squinted his eyes until he could see it. It was a dead dog. "Ew." Paul muttered. The Spy slowed to a stop, and looked around his shoulder. "I remember that one. Died before he was even full grown. Tisk tisk tisk." Paul turned back, and could have sworn he saw a backpack with something protruding from it behind the dog.

When they arrived at the training facility, as usual, the Spy stepped aside and opened the door for him. Paul walked through and continued to the area that the spy's equipment was. "Well?" Paul asked, this time no-longer huffing to keep up. "Put on some . . . "Clothes". The Spy said. Without missing a beat, he unstrapped the case and put it on the table. He clicked it open, and pulled the clothes out, looking at them distastefully as he did before.

Paul grabbed them and began putting them on. Midway through putting on his pants, he realized something. Puzzled, he looked up and asked "How did you fit those clothes in there?" The spy looked behind him. "I can turn invisible, boy. There should be no surprise that I can fit clothes into such a small case. But if you really want to know . . ." He opened the case and showed the inside to Paul. "Dell made this." Inside was a small metal rod. "Watch" The Spy said. He took out his knife, what Paul recognized as the Big Earner. He dropped it in the case. The metal rod whirred, and produced a bright yellow light. The knife sort-of floated off of the surface of the bottom of the case for a second, before being shrunk and enveloped in a small metal rod.

"H- How is that . . ." Paul asked mystified at what he had just witnessed. "That man . . . Dell . . . He produces what a layman would think as miracles. I have no idea how it works, the only semblance of knowledge I have on it is that it works somewhat like the life-link, reforming atoms, and such." "That's amazing!" Paul said. "Yes, yes it is." The spy closed up the case and walked to the corner, coming up to the "Dummy Sentries" Box. He picked a smaller one up- a mini sentry- and plopped it into the middle of the linoleum floor. "Surprise it." The spy said.

"What? How do you want me to do that?" Paul asked. "Sneak up on it. Keep quiet. Stay hidden, right up until the surprise." "Won't the thing . . . Like . . . Blow pieces of my body off if I do?" The spy smirked, and keeping his arms crossed, kicked the back of the sentry. It turned and shot 4 times, only a single cigarette coming out on the 3rd shot. He caught it, and pulled a lighter from his left pocket, lighting the cigarette. He put it in his mouth. "Now go."

"_What else did I expect?_" Paul thought to himself. He reared up, getting into a stance that was like a cat about to pounce. He slowly walked towards. His foot edged off of the floor- The sentry turned. **_Click Click Phoomph Click! _**Paul flinched as a cigarette launched towards his face. He looked at the spy, puzzled. "How'd it know I was there?" The Spy smiled and walked towards him, standing side by side to him.

"You didn't balance your weight. Watch." The Spy took his eyes off of Paul's. He took his foot and edged it up, his toe gently grazing the floor. Paul watched as it went all the way up, his leg in position to step. "All you have to do is lead gently- gracefully. Don't go fast, go slower . . ." He looked at Paul, and down to the leg firmly planted on the floor. "All you have to do for this leg is to center it. Stay on the ball of your foot. Balance, distribute your weight evenly. Do not let any part of your foot touch the floor- Not the heel, the arc of the foot, the sides, or the toes. In a battle, like the one taking place in not the longest time- it's a death sentence. You never know when some bastard will turn and empty any sort of killing machine's bullet feed into you. We may survive and move on to the life-link . . . But we may lose the position without constant reinforcement. And a spy like me makes sure one of those fat ones doesn't kill everyone in sight wearing Red garments, and that's an important job."

"Don't you walk faster than that?" Paul asked. "Well of course, but if you need to learn this style of walking, you must start off slowly. Now try again." The Spy activated the sentry once again. Paul looked at the sentry in concentration. He did what the spy did. Very slowly, he lifted his foot up . . . It lightly touched the ground as it went up. His foot was up. He smiled, and remembered about his other leg. He shifted his weight to the ball of his foot. He had done it. He had taken half of his first step.

"Bravo, child." The spy said in a hushed whisper. "Now, slowly . . . Slowly . . . Take the weight off of your planted leg . . . Let it shift to your toes, very, very slightly lean on your toes. Take your upward foot, and slowly plant the tips of your toes on the floor. Do what you did with the other, but reversed. Shift your weight from your toes to the ball of your foot, and gently lay down your heel.

Paul slowly did as he was asked. He shifted his weight on his planted foot to the toes. He put his other foot down toe tip first, slowly shifting the weight to the ball of the foot. He slowly put his heel down. He was sweating now, and he realized it. The sentry was still "staring" off into space. He licked his chapped lips. He took his previously planted foot and lifted it. His bare feet were cold in the air conditioning.

All of the sudden, out of nowhere, he had a muscle spasm in his left leg, he lost his balance in his right. His eyes grew wide immediately, and his arms went out. "Whoa!" He said panicked. His right foot went down, slipping on the floor, causing him to fall to it, landing on his back. The sentry began shooting at him, only clicking until the small cigarette came launching out of the barrel, hitting him in the forehead. "Damnit." The Spy clapped slowly, smiling and slowly advancing. He reached his hand down, grabbing Paul's, gripping him tightly and pulling him on his feet.

"Now don't slip again!" The Spy quipped. Paul chuckled. "Funny." "You did fantastically, there's no reason to be worried. I won't call you a boy anymore. You seem to be good at this, so . . . hereby; I'll refer to you as a "colleague". But, that could be a bit cumbersome . . . So . . . Maybe . . . Friend? Like the rest of us." Paul smiled. "I'm glad to be an equal. In your eyes at least." The spy chuckled. "Not equal. As a person, maybe, but as a fellow fighter, as a fellow mercenary, we are not equal. But still- friends." Paul rolled his eyes playfully. "I knew you'd be like that." The spy turned on his heels. He reached down to the sentry reactivating it. He flicked it with his left hand, his other on the barrel. "**_Click Click Phoomph Click" _**The Spy caught the incoming cigarette, and as before, lit it and put it in his mouth.

"Everybody wakes up at 8:30." He pulled up his sleeve, revealing a gold and leather watch. "It's 4:42. We have a small amount less than 4 hours to practice." Paul nodded. "Sounds pretty tough." The Spy looked at him. "Would you like a cigarette?" Paul waved his hand. "No, I'd . . . rather not." "Eh. Suit yourself." The Spy replied nonchalantly. "You're gonna get cancer, you know that, right?" Paul said. "I'll probably die in a hail of gunfire before cancer takes me. I think I'm alright." The Spy said calmly. "Now go again. Keep doing it until you can circle the sentry without being caught in . . . Less than 20 seconds. If you can do that, than we've hit our daily goal. And stop preaching. It's a slightly annoying" Paul nodded and got back to practicing.

The hours passed by quickly for Paul, and the clicks became near-maddening. Sometimes the spy gripping his nose bridge in frustration, sometimes indifferent, and once in a Blue moon smiling, muttering a compliment or the occasional "Good, good, progress . . ." Paul got close to making it a few times, each time he failed an almost inevitable curse coming from his mouth. Finally after about 4 hours, Paul had been firmly set in the motions, only 3 or 4 breaks. Small piles of cigarettes formed an almost uniform circle around the route he had been taking. The Spy leaned forward bit by bit, his jaw dropping more. He had gotten exceptionally further. He crept, all of his mind focused on this. His weight shifted, balancing each foot as they fell and rose. The spy was smiling now, and had his fists clenched. "Come on, come on . . ." He murmured.

Paul crept along, and his last step had fallen upon him. He balanced on his foot, planting it on the floor, balancing, every fiber of his body working in unison, keeping absolutely silent. His foot came down. Silence. The sentry still neutral. "Yes! Yes, you've done it!" The Spy exclaimed. He looked at his watch. "14 seconds! Quite impressive!" The yelling of the spy alerted the sentry, but he swiftly deactivated it on its Second click.

He stood up straight once again, leading him by the shoulder. You've done well so far . . . It'll be a few days, probably up to 4 or 5 to be able to walk a _viable _speed for a combat situation. Refinement is also needed, as that sentry is years old and isn't as responsive as a person. But for what we're doing next, it's good." "What's next?" Paul said panting. Before the spy could respond, Paul puffed, holding his hand up, shaking his head. "I want to rest. Badly. All of this . . ." "Spooking." The spy said. "Yeah, all of this spooking is really tiring. I think I should rest.

"Well . . ." The spy said. "The rest are awake at this point." The Spy examined his watch. "Yes . . . It's 8:52 in the morning, and it's beginning to get hot. I guess you can rest for a while." Paul smiled, a little fist pump accompanying his sudden merriment. He walked ahead of the Spy, quickly being pulled back by him. The Spy pointed a finger at him, a puff of smoke puffing into Paul's face, causing him to flinch. "No sleep. Go do whatever you want to do with the others."

Paul sighed. When they arrived, the Spy excused himself. He walked back into his motel, closing the door behind him, flicking his cigarette off of the balcony before he walked in. Paul looked out towards the main building. He could see the Soldier and the Demoman walking down the rows of apartments knocking on doors. As usual, the Demoman was smiling happily, talking to the soldier about the previous night's exploits. As far as Paul could tell, They were the only ones awake. But as he walked down, he could tell that he was wrong.

He eventually reached the saloon. He walked in, as he heard an acoustic guitar playing coming from within the still ramshackle building. He pushed the mid-western style swinging doors. Inside, a circle of overturned pieces of wood were formed in the center of the large first floor. The engie sat upon the one closest to the door. He had a white T-Shirt that had faint sweat outlines around the armpits and neck. He was cradeling the guitar that made the noise. Next to him on the wood was a small glass beer bottle only 1/4 of the way filled.

The medic sat opposite to him. He had his glasses pinched by the ear rest in between his thumb and index finger. He was heartily laughing and wiping his eyes. He had no gloves on, and his hair was slightly frazzled. Instead of his usual "doctor's" coat, he had a button up red shirt with the bottom button undone. The sniper sat next to him, clutching a bear, still chuckling. He shifted his sunglasses up as he took another swig.

"So anyway fellas, I was sittin' up on the balcony, you know the thing that you like to sit by all day at 2fort-" He nodded his head to the Sniper, who in turn nodded back. "And The Demoman on the other team kept tryin' to destroy my gear. Get this- the guy had one of them upgraded sticky-bomb launchers, called a . . . Scottish Resistance, or something. He kept firin' em up to my sentries. Now I guess at that time it was new, like we'd only _just _gotten it outta the box. They didn't blow for almost a second, and all I had to do was kick em' right back off at him. He blew himself up 4 or 5 times before he called it quits and went after Misha."

They all laughed in unison, the Sniper almost spilling his beer with the force that he hit the wood against it. "That's nothing. I once-" The Medic stopped talking when he noticed Paul standing at the door. "Ah, my friend Paul! Come sit!" The Medic gestured to him to come sit by him. When he noticed Paul looking for a beer bottle so that he didn't sit on it, the Medic made a dismissal gesture with his hand. "Don't worry, I'm not a drinker." Paul sat down.

"So. You wanna shoot the shit, or do you wanna just listen to us for a while?" The Engie said smiling. "Please don't curse around our guest." The Medic said. The Engie put his guitar down and put his hands out. "I'm sorry, I ain't lookin' for no trouble." Paul nodded. "No, I'm cool with cursing." The Medic glared at the Engie. "Really." The Medic grunted and sat back at ease. "Well, what's your answer fella'?" The Engie continued, reaching for his beer to take a sip. "I'll just listen to-" Paul didn't get to finish before the Engie interrupted.

"Wait a minute son. You're trainin' with Jean right?" Paul nodded. "Why do you want to know?" The Engie was about to talk when the Sniper cut him off. "Your memory slippin' Dell? Sounds like 35's gettin' a bit too old for yah." He laughed as The Engie chuckled, cracking a grin. "Whatever you say pee-pee boy." The sniper turned his head away, still sitting with his arms resting on his legs. "I'll make sure I fill up an extra jar _just _for you mate.", he mumbled, still smiling. "You wanna see somethin' interestin'?" The Engie said. "Sure!" Paul replied. The Engie's contraptions mystified him most of the time, making him especially eager to see what he had next. "You got one of them sapper things?" Paul shook his head. "Damn. Hold on a minute, I'll go grab one down by the training center. I'll be back in like Ten Minutes." Paul nodded.

Eventually the Engie got back. He held up a sapper. He pulled a screwdriver out of a utility belt laid against the wall, and opened up the back compartment of the sapper. Paul, now leaned over with the Medic, looked at the series of Blue, Red, and Yellow wires that adorned the innards of the device. The Engie was about to snip something with a pair of pliers he had also procured from the belt, when he stopped and looked up at Paul. "Why was . . . Why was there a circle of cigarettes on the ground?" Paul looked back at him. "Training. Lots of training. Lots." The Engie seemed confused for a second, but then shrugged. "Alright! You see these Three wires?"

Both the Medic and Paul gave approving "Mhms" As they looked on. He pointed to the Blue wire. "This wire transports electricity from what it's sapping into the sapper." He pointed to the Red wire. "This Wire keeps it from overheating. It's very hot." And then he pointed to the Yellow wire. "This transports gaseous oil to the sapper to make it work, to fuel it. Now watch." He turned it over, and flipped the switch twice, making sure that it was off. He turned it back over and snipped both the Red and the Yellow wire. He turned and picked out a small piece of metal from the belt still on the floor, this time dragging it to the makeshift seat.

He put the metal halfway into the red wire, and put the alternating yellow wire over the other half of it. He took the cover, and without screwing it in, smacked it against the back. He walked over to the bar part of the saloon and looked behind it, leaning his short stature against the wood. Underneath was a safe. He turned on the sapper and put it inside of the safe. He turned from it smiling, and covering his ears. _Boom!_****A small explosion bounced off of the inside of the safe.

"Best thing to come outta that guy's loadout" The engineer cheered, wiping his brow with his shoulder. "Thought that this might make your trainin' a bit more entertainin', and heck, maybe it'll even be useful sometime. . . What're you doin' with him anyway?" "Eh. Nothing that's too . . . Lethal, just sneaking around." Paul replied. The Sniper looked up at him. "You might wanna just call it Spooking, I have no idea why, but that's what Jean prefers it to be called. French thing, I guess." Paul took note of it, although he had noticed something about the word before.

Paul heard something behind him, which he quickly realized were the swiveling doors behind him opening. He turned around, only to see the pyro approaching. He was wearing some sort of poncho which Paul vaguely recognized, and he was swinging his hands around in front of him, sort of like a gesture saying "I didn't do it!". "Howa hu ha hudda huda howa ho!" The Pyro was frantically saying. The Medic turned to him. "What is it Pyro?"

That was when Paul heard rapidly approaching footsteps. "Oh no" The Pyro said. The Heavy pushed open the door knocking the Pyro off his balance, almost knocking him down. The Heavy stopped next to him. "Look what happen to Morning Baked Sandvich." He held up a charred piece of bread with equally smoltered remains of sandwich components barely holding on underneath. The Medic frowned and sighed. "What happened to your sandwich Misha?" The heavy looked at the pyro, who in turn said "Ow hwowhee"

The Heavy put his hands towards The Pyro still facing the Medic. "Pyro go into kitchen to make Morning Baked Sandvich, like you said." The Medic nodded. "Mhm." The Heavy continued, making gestures to accompany his story. "Pyro put Morning Baked Sandvich in oven," The Medic nodded. "Yes?" The Heavy continued once again. "Is not oven. Is flamethrower. Woosh! Gone. I want my sandvich." The Medic rolled his eyes. "Pyro . . ." The Pyro stood straight up, shaking his head. "Ow hwowhee, eh wha a aawhawhen!"

The Medic continued to stare at him. "Really?" The Pyro looked down. "Uhhhh . . ." The Medic raised an eyebrow. "No." The Pyro said. The Medic loosened his stance. "It's alright. Come on, we'll make Misha a new Sandwich." The Pyro stood up and looked at the Heavy, clapping his hands. The Heavy smiled. "I cannot stay angry at little Pyro. Come. We make sandvich that is far better than burnt one." The pyro held a thumbs up to him before they turned and followed the Medic. But as they pushed past the swing doors, The Medic turned. "You three should get to work on renovation again. I will be back later. I'm going to help these Two get started and I'm going to eat lunch." The Engie nodded and the Sniper held his thumb up. Soon it was only the three of them.

The Engie stood up, cracking his back by swiveling his body. He picked up his utility belt and snapped it onto his waist. "I suppose he's right. Come one Mike, we oughta' get to work on that balcony. Gotta get the dang thing standin'." The Sniper tossed his bottle to the side and stood up, taking off his hat and wiping his forehead with his forearm. "I guess." They both started walking up the stairs on the creaky wooden stairs to the left of the bar when the Engineer stopped. He looked over his shoulder.

"You oughta' meet with the others . . . You know, just to get to know all of us, because it's gonna be a while. It was nice meetin' with you." He tipped his hat and continued up the stairs. Paul nodded and turned to leave the saloon. Once again he was on the desert road. "Hey! Hey lad, come over here!" Paul heard. He looked around until he spotted the Demoman leaned over the top balcony on the side of the hotel. "Oh, hi Demoman!" He walked up the stairs and went next to him. "What is it?" The Demoman stood straight up from his leaning position and smiled.

"Call me Tavish. Follow me down to the kitchen, I need some help." Paul nodded. "Sure thing, but what is it you need help with?" They began walking back down the stairs towards the kitchen. "Just a little help around the kitchen later tonight. Could yah clear up a bit of your schedule with Jean to help me out?" "Sure- Tavish!" "Thanks. Let's go downstairs and get a bite to eat, when'd you wake up? I don't think me and Jane saw you come outta your room . . ."

"Eh . . . Around 4 or 5 . . . I don't remember quite right." The Demoman cringed. "Ooh, that's rough lad. Well, I'm sure that means you're at least a bit hungry. I'll make you some toast or somethin'. Come on." Paul followed him down to the mess hall. "Sit down in the mess hall, I'll bring it to yah when it's done." Paul nodded and looked at the rows of tables. The Heavy, who was sitting at the row of tables closest to the kitchen, was sitting next to the pyro, happily munching his Sandvich. The Pyro was fiddling with a box of Crackers, and occasionaly taking one out and putting it on the dark brown wooden table, forming what Paul realized was a smiley face.

The Soldier was 5 rows back, sitting back with his legs up on the table, a mug in his hand. It said "Number One survivor" On it. He smiled, cleared his throat, and took a sip of what Paul presumed was Coffee. The Medic sat a few rows ahead of him, eating a small muffin, writing something on a small notepad. He looked up and noticed Paul looking around. "Oh, Schüler, come here!" The Medic beckoned towards himself. "Coming!" Paul responded as he walked over. "What is it?" The Medic looked up at Paul, sitting up straight.

"Me and Dell stayed up a bit late last night working on plans for the upcoming battle. It turns out that when we estimated the time it would take for the fight to happen, we miscalculated. It's not going to be 5 or 6 months, it's going to be just a small amount more than a year. Apparently something happened at Mann Co, neither team is getting any ammunition or weapons for that long. They've barely given us enough food to scrape by, and we certainly don't want that to stop coming to us." Paul nodded, and then gave pause. "Wait- How did you calculate that?" "Dell has some information on inventory and sales within Mann Co. We calculated how much money they're making, and did some math regarding the prices for ammo, yadda yadda yadda, we have how long we have to wait.

Paul heard the Kitchen door swing open. The demoman had a small plate in his hand, and looked around a few seconds before seeing Paul and walking up to him. The Demoman layed the plate down onto the table. Paul looked up at him. "Thanks!" The Demoman nodded, and walked over to the Soldier. "Alright Jane, it's your turn to cook lunch." The soldier nodded. "I'll get on it soon." He sat back and took another sip from his mug.

Paul looked back at the Medic and asked "How did you get actual food?" The Medic nodded and smiled, holding the Muffin up. "Mann Co, as an apology for the waiting time on the restock on weapons, is sending us real food for a few months. Apparently they had forgotten a warehouse of food in the rush of Christmas. It managed to survive, and now we're eating it! To be honest, I have no idea how Mann Co. forgot an _entire _warehouse of food. Their whole company is a bit mystifying." He took a large bite of the muffin, finishing it off. He stood up and wiped a few crumbs off his shirt.

"Well, I have to go now, but I will see you later. Servus!" The Medic stood up an walked away. Paul sat down and began to eat his toast. When he was finished, he stood up, turning on his heel. He immediately was met with the face of the Spy. He was startled and flinched a bit. "Um . . . Hi?" Paul said. "Oh, sorry if I scared you a bit." The Spy backed up and nodded. "We have to discuss something. Sit."

"Alright." Paul sat down. The Spy did too, and folded his fingers in front of him. "You learned how to sneak, correct? You succeeded. Once. But you must be able to do this every time, not only that, but quicker. Much quicker." Paul nodded. "Now, I'm sure that you've heard that we will be getting restocked with ammo and weapons in around a year, yes?" Paul nodded. "There are 9 of us. 12 divided by nine is . . ." The Spy hesitated for a second. "1.33. You have 1.33 months with each of us, which is about 40-43 days. You've learned basic sneaking, but you also have to learn to use a revolver, a knife, and the finer points of cloaking, and disguising. That's 4 different things to do. You have 10 days for each." Paul nodded. "10 days for each weapon? That shouldn't be hard." The Spy looked at him, and pulled out his knife.

The Spy looked over to the pyro, and threw the knife. The knife flew point first through a cracker that the Pyro was holding, impaling part of it into the metal wall behind him. The Pyro stared at it for a few seconds before taking out another cracker and shrugging. Paul looked at The Spy in amazement. The Spy looked back at him. "Yes. Easy. This is going to be extremely difficult. You know that right?" Paul nodded. "Yes. I do." "Good. That means that you're going to have to practice sneaking a lot over the next couple of days. Expect to be up early." Paul nodded once again. "It was good talking to you, I have some business to attend to." The Spy turned back again and began walking back to his room. Paul looked at him walking, quizzically. "That was Strange." He muttered to himself as he wiped the crumbs of his chest. "I think I'll go help The Sniper and The Engie fix up that balcony." He said too. Paul walked out of the Mess Hall, the sun beating down on him as soon as he left it's shade.

The Next week Paul was worked like a mule. Every day at at least 4 in the morning he was awoken by the Spy. Sneaking was Second nature to him at this point. He did get better though, and the Spy let him know. It was only 2 days before time constraints forced him onto the next subject, which they decided was the Revolver, Sapper, and the Knife. Everyone was used to Paul's presence, and he found it increasingly easy to share a laugh with everyone, whether it be around a campfire or a table in the Mess hall. As Paul finished sneaking successfully around the Sentry in 6 seconds for the fourth time in a row, he knew, along with the Spy, that he was ready for whatever he would need to do to become a true Spy.


End file.
